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THE WRONG SIDE OF 
EIGHTEEN 

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT 



"By 

ALDENA CARLSON 




CHICAGO 
T. S. DENISON dc COMPANY 

Publishers 



ps ^^lsn 



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'NOTICE 

Moving picture, talking picture, 
and radio broadcasting rights on 
this play are reserved. Inquiries 
concerning them should be ad- 
dressed in care of the publishers. 



Made in U. S. A. 



COPYRIGHT, 1931 

"By 

T. S. DENISON 8c COMPANY 



The Wrotig Side of Eighteen 



©CI D pub. 890 



^^P 17 193! 



THE WRONG SIDE OF 
EIGHTEEN 



FOR ONE MAN AND THREE WOMEN 



CHARACTERS 

(In the order of their first appearance) 

Martin Gage (Mart) . . The returned admirer of other day's 

Mrs. Sherman His old-time farm neighbor 

Evelyn McKim Mrs. Sherman's granddaughter 

Addie Sherman Mrs. Sherman's daughter 



Time — Late afternoon and tzvilight of an autumn day. 



Place — TJie Sherman farmhouse somezvhcre in the Middle 

West. 



Time of Playing — Twenty minutes. 



4 THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 

COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS 

Mart is a slightly rangy, young-looking man of thirty-five, 
brown, rugged, and good-looking but not particularly hand- 
some. He wears a plain dark suit, not very well-fitting, also 
an overcoat, with a broad-brimmed cowboy hat to suggest 
his fifteen years of residence in the far West. 

Mrs. Sherman is a gray-haired, motherly, comfortable- 
looking farm woman of fifty-five, who has on a pair of 
spectacles. She wears a neat house dress covered with a 
gingham apron, with a dust cap on her head. 

Evelyn is a rather pretty girl of eighteen, with the breezy, 
self-assured manner, speech, and appearance of the ultra- 
modern girl. She has on horn-rimmed spectacles, and wears 
an attractive tailored dress in some subdued color, with 
coat and hat to harmonize. Later in the play, she makes a 
quick change to a dress of a gay blue shade, with the same hat 
and coat. 

Addie is a pleasant- faced country schoolma'am of thirty- 
three, who shows her age somewhat. She has a quiet, as- 
sured manner and gentle ways and speech, smiling easily, 
though she is far from gay. She also wears spectacles and 
is enough like her mother and Evelyn in height and build 
to make it possible for them to be mistaken for her or for 
her to be mistaken for one of them. She is dressed in a neat 
and becoming tailored dress, not in the height of style, with 
a plain coat and hat that show wear, though they are not 
shabby or old-fashioned. 



PROPERTIES 

For Mrs. Sherman, a pair of spectacles, a sauce dish, and 
a handkerchief. For Evelyn, a pair of horn-rimmed spec- 
tacles, a bracelet, and a string of amber beads. For Addie, 
spectacles, a tin dinner pail, a pan of potatoes, and a paring 
knife. 



THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 5 

STAGE DIRECTIONS 

Up stage means away from footlights ; dozvn stage, near 
footlights. In the use of right and left, the actor is supposed 
to be facing the audience. 



THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 



Scene: Dining room of Mrs. Sherman's midtvcstcrn 
fannhouse , along toward tzoilight of an autumn day. The 
room has two doors: one at left, leading to the kitchen and 
the back door, and the other at right leading to the living 
room and the upstairs. A curtained window, with neat, in- 
expensive white draperies, is up center. The room is plainly 
furnished, neat, and orderly. In the center is a medium- 
sised, rather old-fashioned dining table, zvith a cloth on it, 
partly set for the evening meal. Around the table are placed 
three straight-backed chairs. A similar chair is near the door 
at left, a little dozvn stage from it, and two more chairs of 
the same kind are up right and left respectively. Up extreme 
left, against the back wall, stands a cupboard or old-fashioned 
sideboard, on zvhich are arranged a fciv dishes. Up extretne 
right, near the right wail, is a mantelshelf, on zvhich is a 
clock facing left in such a manner that its face is not clearly 
visible to the audience. On the shelf also is an oil lamp 
with a large white globe. On the wall above the shelf is a 
mirror of medium sise. On the wall on the down-stage side 
of the right-hand door, hangs an old-fashioned telephone 
instrument. A little up stage from left door, on the wall 
hangs a rozv of hooks or zvall hatrack. Inexpensive rag rugs 
in cheerful patterns are on the floor, and a few appropriate 
pictures are on tJie zvalls. Just outside left door, the corner 
of a kitchen tabic is barely visible to the audience. As it is 
zvell along toward tzvilight, the footlights and the flood lights 
are somewhat subdued, and as the play progresses, they be- 
come dimmer and dimmer until the point at zvhich the stage 
becomes almost dark and Mrs. Sherman lights the lamp. 

At rise of curtain, Mart is seated in the chair near the 



8 THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 

left-hand door, zvith his overcoat on and Jiis hat on the floor 
beside him, xvhile Mrs. Sherman passes to and fro between 
the Clipboard and the table, bringing dishes and silver and 
arranging them on the table, and stopping occasionally in her 
tvork to finish what she is saying to Mart. 

Mart (in a cheerfully reminiscent tone). So Old Man 
Giiuder is married again; is he? Well, I hope his third wife 
makes him spend his money a little easier than he did with 
his first. They said he wouldn't even get the doctor when 
she was dying. He sure was a tightwad ! I worked for him 
a couple months. That's about as long as anybody could 
stand to work for him, I guess. Gosh, I ain't met anyone 
like him sence ! You know, out West, people don't get that 
notion of stingeing on everything, even if they do have a 
hard time getting ahead. Guess it's because everything's built 
kind of on the big out there. 

Mrs. Sherman (carrying plates to the table and arrang- 
ing them). Yes, it's different, I s'pose. It's different here, 
too, sence you was here. So many of the younger genera- 
tion on the farms now, and they're different. Spending comes 
easier to them, seems like. 

Mart. Yes, ma'am, I s'pose that's so ; though from what 
I hear, farming ain't much more paying here than it used 
to be. Guess you an' Addie's had quite a pull of it to keep 
things going as well as you have, Mrs. Sherman. 

Mrs. Sherman. Yes, we ain't had it easy. I never could 
have got on without Addle. She was just through high 
school and had started teachin' when pa died. That's just 
after you went away, you know. 

Mart. Yeah. Well, I've had some pretty hard sledding 
myself. But I ain't never been sorry I pulled out. Of 
course if ma hadn't married again, or if she'd got a hold of 
anybody but that old Jake Barrow — Well, I felt pretty 
bad when I got word that ma'd died, but it wasn't no use 
then. An' I guess she didn't blame me much for going, the 
way I did. 

Mrs. Sherman. No, I don't think anybody blamed you, 



THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 9 

Mart, for getting out and away — the way things was for you. 
And now that you've done so well, too — 

Mart. Well, yes. I ain't done so bad, looking at things 
from all sides. But it sure does seem good to see the old 
places ! Had lots of fun this afternoon as I drove along, 
saying to myself, "That's So-and-so's old place !" Things 
ain't changed much back here. Don't s'pose folks have, 
either. Well, don't you think it's time for Addie to show 
up? You said — 

Mrs. Sherman. Yes, it's past time for her to come home. 
She's been coming right home right after school these even- 
ings sence it's begun to get dark earlier. Says there's so 
much she wants to get done, fixing things up before winter 
sets in. Old Ben's pretty slow about things. 

Mart. You don't have a reg'lar hired man now ? 

Mrs. Sherman. No, we don't have one now, after the 
summer work's done. Not till cold weather comes and it 
gets too much for Ben to take care of the stock alone. We 
can't afford it, somehow. And Addie's always handy about 
looking after things. 

Mart. She sure is a wonder! But don't you s'pose I'd 
better set out to get her ? Seems a shame, long's I have my 
car right here. Ma}be I could get there yet before she 
started out, if she staged late for something. Or couldn't 
I meet her along the way ? 

Mrs. Sherman. Trouble is, as I've been saying, that she 
so often goes across pastures, especially when she's late. 
You'd better wait. vShe'il be along very soon now. 

Mart. Well, maybe I'd better wait. Might miss her, as 
you say. It's hard tellin', of course — 

Evelyn suddenly enters at left and erosses to table. Slie 
is zvearing outdoor ivraps, and is evidently in a hurry. Mart 
rises, stands uncertain for a second, and then strides to her 
and takes Iier hand. 

Mart. Well, here she is! Hello, Addie! Kind of 
su 'prised to see me, eh? 



lU THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 

Evelyn {on Jicr dignity, tliougJi not in the least bashful 
or embarrassed). Pardon me, biit I guess you're making a 
mistake ! 

Mrs. Sherman. Why, yes. Mart. That's my grand- 
daughter Evelyn. Amy's girl, you know. Amy was mar- 
ried to Walt McKim, and they both died when Evelyn was 
little, and so she's lived with us. This is Mart Gage, Evelyn. 
Used to live here when he was a boy. 

Evelyn. Guess it must be years ago, if he thought I was 
Aunt Addie ! Say, that's sure one on me ! Guess I'll have 
to stop wearing these glasses. 

Mart (trying to laugh off his painful embarrassment). 
Guess the joke's on me! I sure beg your pardon! You 
see, we were expectin' your aunt, and I hadn't thought of 
there being anybody else here. And you do look like Addie 
— like your aunt ! Don't she, Mrs. Sherman ? 

Mrs. Sherman. Yes, they all say she does; though I 
can't see it much myself, knowing them both so well. 

Evelyn (to Mart, coquettishly). Well, I don't think 
you'll have much trouble telling us apart when you see us 
together. Mr. Gage ! At least, I hope not ! Grandma, don't 
you s'pose it'd be all right for me to take Aunt Addie's am- 
ber beads if she don't get home before I have to go to the 
dance? I have to be over at Mabel's house at half past. 
Going to have supper over there. 

Mrs. Sherman. Well, Evelyn, I don't think you ought 
to take your aunt's things any more. You know how you 
lost that ring of hers, and I know she felt bad about that, 
too. She'd had it so long. 

Evelyn. Oh. shucks ! That old ring again ! I don't think 
she minded much, at that. It was too young-looking for 
her to wear, anyway. 

Mrs. Sherman. Well, just the same, Evelyn, I don't 
think you'd better — 

Evelyn. Oh. well, never mind ! I'll go up and get ready, 
and maybe she'll get here l^efore I have to go. Glad to have 
met you, Mr. Gage! Are you going to stay around here 
this winter? 



THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 11 

Mart. Well, no. I don't know just how long I'll stay. 
Couple of weeks, maybe. All depends. 

Evelyn. Well, you'll sure find it dull around this neck 
of the woods ! My, I do wish I was back in town, even if I 
did hate that poky old high school ! Well, see you again, 
Mr. Gage. {Crosses to right and exits, right, taking off her 
coat as she goes.) 

Mart (still considerably embarrassed). So that's Addie's 
niece — the one she's put through high school. 

Mrs. Sherman. Yes, Addie's done for her in every way. 
I've often told her she was doing too much. Seems girls now- 
adays don't appreciate what you do for them, the way 
they used to. Addie was so grateful to her pa for helping 
her as well as he could, so's she could get through high school. 
And she worked so hard and got through in three years, so's 
she could get to teachin' and start payin' him back. But 
Evelyn had a hard time getting through in the four years, 
it seems. But maybe it's harder now than it used to be. 
Addie says it prob'ly is. Anyway, there's so much more 
going on, and it takes so much more for clothes and things. 
Addie didn't have anything like the clothes Evelyn's had to 
have. 

Mart. Is she going to teach, too? 

Mrs. Sherman. Well, we had hoped she would, or else 
get into some other kind of work. But seems she don't get 
going at anything. Guess she's just out for a good time 
yet, though she's always complaining how dull it is out here 
in the country. She's young, of course. 

Mart. Yes. guess young people do find the country dull 
anywheres these days. Say, they just ought to try it out 
West — out in the cattle country! Still, it ain't so dull there, 
either, if you've got to hustle around for a living and keep 
things going for yourself ! Well, Mrs. Sherman, I believe 
I'll just go out and buzz up that old coop of mine and spin 
down the road a bit and see if I can't get sight of Addie. 

Mrs. Sherman. Well, if you're bound to, then. But 
come right back, though, if you don't run across her, for 



12 THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 

I'm going to have supper ready just about as soon as Addie 
gets here. And I should think you'd be hungry ! 

Mart. Yes, ma'am, I'll be right back! That supper 
smells too good to take any chances, and I'm sure hungry, 
all right! I'd better take the south road. Hadn't I? That's 
the road she'll come. Ain't it? 

Mrs. Sherman. Yes, that's the way she'll come, if she 
don't come across pastures. Now don't be gone long if you 
don't find her. 

Mart. No, ma'am, I won't. So long, then. (Puts on his 
hat as he exits at left.) 

Mrs. Sherman foUoivs him off at left, returning almost 
immediately tvith a china sauce dish, ivJiich she sets on the 
table. She goes slowly around the table rearranging several 
dishes in leisurely fashion, humming some familiar hymn 
tune. Simultaneously Addie enters at right in outdoor wraps, 
carrying her dinner pail. Evidently tired, she crosses slozvly 
to left and sets her dinner pail on the table just off stage 
from left door, as she speaks. 

Addie. Hello, ma. (Takes off hat and coat and hangs 
them on row of hooks, a little up stage from left door.) 

Mrs. Sherman. Hello, Addie. What's made you so 
late ? 

Addie. Oh, I stopped after school to help Phil with his 
arithmetic. He has such a time with square root. He isn't 
dumb, either ; and he does try so hard and feels so bad about 
it. (Crosses to center tabic.) 

Mrs. Sherman. Guess he taf:es after his ma about 'rith- 
metic. Don't you remember how she used to copy your ex- 
amples, and how that Miss Geer caught her doing it once? 
Say, you've got company, Addie. Didn't you meet him ? 

Addie. Company? Him? Who? (Moves around the 
table aimlessly.) 

Mrs. Sherman. Well, I don't s'pose it's any use makin' 
you guess. He said yon didn't know about him coming. 



THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 13 

Addie (zvith tJic emphasis of mild exasperation). Ma, 
who? 

Mrs. Sherman. One of your old beaux, Mart Gage. 

Addie (stopping very still for a moment). Mart! Why, 
how — ? What is — ? 

Mrs. Sherman. He said he'd had it in mind to come for 
a long while. He's out in Montana, you know. Hadn't 
thought to come this fall, it seems, but then he decided to 
drive to Chicago for some stock show, and then he thought 
he might as well come on out here. 

Addie. He's driving through, then? 

Mrs. Sherman. Yes, in an old flivver, he said. But 
guess he could afford 'most any kind of car, from things he 
let out when he was telling about his place out there. And 
he's not the kind to brag, either. 

Addie {rather breathlessly) . Well, where — where is he? 

Mrs. Sherman. He was here half an hour or more, 
waiting for you, and I kept telling him that you'd be here 
any minute and that you'd most likely come across pastures, 
so's there was no use in him going to get you, like he wanted 
to. And then of course we got to talking about old times, 
and he sat here waiting. But then when you didn't come, 
he said he guessed he'd take chances on getting to the school- 
house before you left or seeing you somewheres on the road. 

Addie. Phil and I came across pastures. We saw a car 
on the south road. Do you suppose he'll come back — to- 
night? Did he — 

Mrs. Sherman. Oh, sure. He'll be right back. I told 
him I'd have supper ready pretty soon, and he said he was 
too hungry to risk missing it. Guess he's kind of excited 
about seeing you, Addie. 

Addie {trying to look skeptical, hut unable to repress a 
happy smile). Oh. do you think so? Guess when he's 
waited this long, he's not been in any special hurry! All 
these years, I mean. 

Mrs. Sherman. You've been hearing from him, though; 
ain't vou? 



14 THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 

Addie. Yes, I've been hearing from him. (Sits at right 
of fable, facing audience.) 

Mrs. Sherman. Well, I guess he's kind of excited about 
seeing you, all right. 

Addie (zvitli a teasing smile on her mouth, but with tender 
eyes). Wonder if his hair still stands on end on the top of 
his head — back here! (Touches her own head.) Did you 
notice, ma? 

Mrs. Sherman. No, I didn't notice. Guess he's been 
through enough to make his hair both stand on end an' lay 
down. Out west, in that wild country — 

She is interrupted by the entrance of Evelyn at right, 
running in with her wraps on, but zvith a gayer dress showing 
beneath. She is ivearing the amber beads, also a bracelet. 

Evelyn. Oh, auntie, can I wear your amber beads to- 
night? I ain't got a thing to wear any more. This old blue 
dress ain't fit to be seen ! Wish I could have something de- 
cent once in a while. Mabel's got the cutest slave bracelet, 
and earrings to match — 

Mrs. Sherman (interrupting soberly). Mabel's pa's 
made a lot of money this summer. Your aunt Addie ain't 
got a stock farm and a bank in town — 

Evelyn (interposing impatiently). Oh, don't bring that 
all up again ! I wasn't askin' for a trip to Europe ! I only 
said I wished I had something decent to wear, for once. It 
don't cost a million to get a girl a few decent things to wear, 
so's she don't need to feel cheap every time she — 

Mrs. Sherman. Now. Evelyn! You know you get two 
and three new dresses for every one your aunt Addie gets 
for herself ! 

Evelyn (scornfully) . Oh, for herself! Good Lord, what 
does she want with dresses ? Never goes anywhere, anyway ! 
Say, by the way, who was that guy that was here, grandma, 
and thought I was Aunt Addie ? Where's he been for the 
last hundred years? 

Addie (painfully startled, rises). Took you for me! 



THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 15 

Evelyn. He sure did ! Must have been some old beau of 
yours or something. Rushed up and grabbed me by the 
hand and called me Addie ! Thought he'd kiss me next ! 
You sure could have knocked me for a hill of beans ! Not 
so bad-looking, either. Must be younger than you, Aunt 
Addie. Kind of hope he sticks around! Bet some of us 
kids could set him going, all right. It's kind of fun to see 
some of them older — (The phone rings and she rushes to 
take down receiver and speak into mouthpiece.) Hello! 
(Pauses.) Yes, I'm all ready, Mabel. (Pauses.) You can 
tell the world I am, and how ! (Pauses.) All right! Goo'- 
bye! (Hangs up receiver.) I've got to hustle right over 
there ! Can I wear these amber beads, auntie ? 

Addie. Yes. 

Evelyn. Oh, and do you mind if I wear this bracelet? 
(Shozvs bracelet on her arm.) It don't look good on you 
any more, anyway. Your arm's too thin. 

Addie. Yes, take it. 

(Evelyn rushes out, at h^ft, witJiout any good-byes, be- 
ing too much in a hurry for them.) 

Mrs. Sherman (reproachfully). Addie, I don't think 
you should let her have all your things. She ain't a bit care- 
ful of them. And she's got things of her own. 

Addie. Oh, it's all right. What's the difference ? (Moves 
about and speaks listlessly as if slie xvere suddenly unbearably 
tired.) Ma, was that so — what Evelyn said — that he — that 
Mart thought — ? 

Mrs. Sherman. That he thought she was you? Yes, he 
did, all right. You know, Addie, she does look like you, 
though you never seem to think so. But everyone else says 
so, an' I do see some of it myself ; though of course she's so 
unlike you in her ways that t can't reelly see much likeness. 

Addie. Yes, I suppose she does look like me — like me 
when I was eighteen years old — when Mart went away. 

Mrs. Sherman. Yes. an' that's fifteen years ago. But of 
course he wouldn't realize — 



16 THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 

Addie (zn'itJi a painful catch in her breath). No, he 
wouldn't realize. 

Mrs. Sherman. No, men never do. And I don't s'pose 
anybody would when they've been gone away like that, so 
long. 

Addie. No, I don't suppose anybody would realize. (Af- 
ter a pause, evidently trying to regain her cheerful poise.) 
Of course I used to write and tell him — in fun, you know — 
that I — that I was getting to be an old maid — that I'd prob- 
ably have to wear something for him to know me by ! Just 
in fun, you know ! 

Mrs. Sherman. You knew he was coming, then? 

Addie. I knew he was coming sometime, but I didn't know 
when. I was kind of hoping he'd not come till — Well, it . 
doesn't make much diflference, of course. 

Mrs. Sherman. Mart always did do things kind of un- 
expected-like, you know. 

Addie. Yes, ma, has he — has he changed much? Does 
he look much older? 

Mrs. Sherman. Oh, he looks older than when he went 
off, of course. He was a boy then, and he's a man now. But 
you know the men in his family never do look their age. 
His father was all of forty when he was killed in that well 
cave-in, but he didn't look a day over thirty. Folks used, 
to talk about how much younger he looked than his wife, and 
say that he should have married a woman much younger than 
himself. Kind of jolly and full of fun he was, you know, 
and I guess Mart's a good deal like him, for all he's been 
through. Lots of men stay young like that. Seems easier 
for them than for women. Not that it matters, goodness 
knows ! \\^e're as old as we are, no matter how we look, 
I guess. 

Addie. Yes, but men have a way of expecting that women 
— that they should always stay young. 

Mrs. Sherman. Oh. of course. They do like a young 
face. And of course there's always plenty to be had. Funny 
part to me has always been that a man expects a woman to 
show her age in sense, but not in looks. Like's if vou could 



THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 17 

show the passing- of the years on the inside of your head and 
not on the outside. But then, Addie, you needn't worry. 
Ain't many women's been through what you have and not 
looking any older than you. Ain't many girls that's done 
what you have for yourself and yours, and others, too, for 
that matter. (She looks hastily into the mirror and then 
glances anxiously at the clock.) 

Addie. Yes, I know, ma. But I guess I don't look 
eighteen any more ! I guess I — Ma, don't you want to go 
and comb your hair and change now? If Mart is coming 
back — 

Mrs. Sherman. Yes, I would like to get fixed up a bit. 
But the pudding's about done, and I ought to get the potatoes 
ready. Seems like I ain't had a minute's time all afternoon 
to get cleaned up. 

Addie. I'll take the pudding out, and I'll start the potatoes. 
You go. 

Mrs. Sherman. Well, but don't you want to fix up your- 
self ? He may be back any time, now. 

Addie. I'll have time when you get back downstairs. I 
won't do much, anyway. 

Mrs. Sherman (taking off cap and apron and dropping 
them on chair back of fable). Well, put these on then, so's 
you won't get all mussed up. I'll hurry. (Exit at right.) 

Addie puts on the cop and apron, crosses left, and steps off 
stage at left long enough to take a pan of potatoes and a par- 
ing knife off the kitchen table near the door. Then she 
crosses and sits in chair right of fable, zvith the pan in her 
lap, and begins to pare potatoes, as Mart enters at left. 
During the scene that follozvs, Addie never turns her full 
face toward him, but stoops over her work. Mcanzvhile the 
room grozvs gradually darker zvith approaching tzvilight. 

Mart. Well, hello ! Has she got home yet ? I missed 
her, after all. Didn't see a sign of her! When did she get 
home ? 

Addie (zdw has groivn rigid for a moment, speaks in a 



18 THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 

somewhat muffled tone). Why— she— she ain't got home. 
You — didn't see her on the road? 

Mart. No ! Why, I sure thought she'd be home by this 
time. Do you s'pose she can have gone somewhere ? 

(Realising Mart's mistake, Addie begitis io speak as much 
as possible like her mother.) 

Addie (after a brief pause). Why — ^yes — she must have 
gone to Marcher's. 

Mart. To Marcher's ? Why, I thought you said he was 
a widower. 

Addie. Yes, he is, but he's got a girl in school, you know^. 
Sometimes he comes for her, and then Addie gets invited 
home with them for supper. 

Mart. But wouldn't she let you know? 

Addie. Oh, she'll prob'ly phone after a while. (After a 
brief pause.) Of course I don't know. She — she may still 
be coming in a minute — may have rid — rode with somebody. 

Mart. Well, of course if — Say, I met Sam Avery and 
stopped to talk to him. That's what kept me. He's sure 
changed a lot. Had some tough luck, I guess, losing his 
wife, and all. That girl of his, though — Frances — say, she's 
sure some young lady! You know I remember tossing her 
up into the haymow as easy as a ball that summer I worked 
for Sam ! She was about three, then, and the darn cutest 
little thing! Sure couldn't toss her around now! Funny, 
ain't it, how fast they do grow up? Especially when one's 
been gone, like I have. 

Addie. Yes, it's queer how soon they grow up, and the 
grown-ups get old. S'pose there'll be lots of folks you won't 
even know. 

Mart. Oh, I think I'll know everybody, all right! I 
didn't have any trouble knowing you, Mrs. Sherman. But 
you sure haven't got any older. And I guess you've had 
your share of trouble, too. from what Addie's wrote me. and 
from what I've heard in one way and another. 

Addie. Yes, we've had our troubles — Addie and me. And 



THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 19 

troubles don't make people any younger — not women, any- 
way. 

Mart. No, ma'am, I guess that's so. Say, what do you 
s'pose Sam's girl started kiddin' me about? Says she's got 
that doll yet that I gave her at- Christmas time that year, 
only she's bobbed its hair ! She sure was a tickled kid over 
that doll ! And she sure can laugh about it ! 

Addie. Yes, Frances is a lively girl, and a very pretty 
girl. She takes after her mother. 

Mart. Yes, ma'am, guess she does. She sure is a pretty 
girl. Beats all how she's got so grown up ! Well, what do 
you s'pose we'd better do about Addie? Do you s'pose — ? 

Addie (after another pause and a glance tozvard the door 
at right as though she were listening for her mother's return). 
Well, I tell you. Maybe it would be as well — if you didn't 
expect her to-night. You see, if she's gone to the Marchers' 
— she'll most likely stay till late. Sometimes she stays till he 
drives up town for the late mail, and then he takes her home. 

Mart (taken aback). She goes — She does that quite 
often ; does she ? 

Addie. Yes, — she goes home with them pretty often. 
You see, the little girl's fond of her teacher, and — well, I 
don't know — but Fred's always been kind of partial to — to 
Addie. You know he wanted Addie before — he — 

Mart (speaking in a Jiurricd and confused manner). Yes, 
I know that, but she — well, Addie's never wrote me about it, 
so I didn't know — You think, then, that Addie — that 
they — ? 

Addie (also hurried and confused). Well, of course, I 
don't know. Addie's never — never said anything. But he 
does seem — And of course it would be a good thing for 
her. She's always had to do for herself — And she'd be 
right near here, and — I — could stay right on here. And of 
course Fred's an awful good man — 

Mart. Yes, Fred's a good man, all right. A mighty fine 
man, all right. 

Addie. And of course — Addie's — getting along in years, 
you know. I don't s'pose you'd even know her — 



20 THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 

Mart (interrupting easily). Oh, I guess I'd know her, 
all right! Guess I'd know .-J rfrf/c, all right! I remember her 
like it was yesterday! Well, Mrs. Sherman, guess I'll be off, 
then. Guess I'll drop in and see Sam a bit before 1 drive on 
in to town for the night. 

Addie. Well, I'm awful sorry. Of course Addie might 
not be so late to-night. Won't you — won't you stay for 
supper and—? 

Mart (evidently anxious to get away). No, thank you, 
Mrs. Sherman, I — Much obliged, just the same, but I guess 
I'd better be off before that radiator freezes up ! Well, good- 
bye, Mrs. Sherman. (He half extends his hand as if to 
shake hajids ivitli her, but Addie seems not to notice and 
keeps on icitJi Jier work.) It's sure seemed nice to see you 
again and to talk about old times ! And — greet Addie for 
me — 

Addie (in a forced voice). But you'll — you'll come in 
sometime later ; won't you ? To-morrow evening, perhaps ? 

Mart. Well, no, I don't think I will this spell, Mrs. Sher- 
man. You see I kind of left in a hurry. Got to get back. 
No tellin' how them cowpunchers may get to actin' up while 
the boss's away ! No, it'll have to be a flying trip this time ! 
Good-bye. Sorry I didn't get to see Addie. Tell her good- 
bye from me. (He hurries out at left.) 

For a moment Addie continues at her work, then rises, 
puts pan of potatoes on the table, and rushes to the window 
up center, peering out. She turns hurriedly and goes to left 
door, placing her hand on the knob. Then slie hesitates, 
crosses to the mantelshelf at right, looks mockingly at herself 
in the mirror, and finally bursts into lozv, mocking laughter. 
A moment later, she goes to the table, drops into cJioir at 
right of table, lays her arms on the table and her head on her 
arms, and zveeps convulsively. As Mrs. Sherman enters at 
right, Addie hurriedly raises her head and tries to stop cry- 
ing and to conceal her tears. The stage is now almost dark. 

Mrs. Sherman (going to the mantelshelf and lighting the 



THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 21 

lamp as sJic talhs). Well, what are you sitting in the dark 
for ? Why ain't you lighted the lamp ? Mart ain't come yet ? 

Addie (in a repressed voice). Yes, he came, ma. 

Mrs. Sherman (sensing that something is wrong and 
growing more and more concerned). Well, where is he 
now? Ain't he going to be here for supper? 

Addie (rising and removing cap and apron). No, ma, he 
didn't stay for supper. He's gone over to Sam's. He used 
to work for Sam, you know, and used to think a lot of 
Frances when she was a little girl. He's gone over there. 
(Lays cap and apron on the chair in which she has been 
sifting. ) 

Mrs. Sherman (crossing to up center, behind table). 
Well, ain't he coming back? What's his hurry to see Sam? 
Why, he said he was hungry for supper when he drove off 
to get you. He surely ain't going off like that after coming 
way out here from Montana to see you ! 

Addie. He didn't come to see me, ma. (Starts right.) 

Mrs. Sherman. Didn't come to see you? Well, he sure 
acted like it this afternoon! What's the matter? What's 
happened ? 

Addie. Nothing's happened, ma. No, he didn't come to 
see me. He came to see somebody — somebody eighteen 
years old — somebody like Evelyn or Frances ! He is still a 
young man — like his father when his father was killed. He 
ought to marry somebody a good deal younger than himself 
— somebody young and pretty! 

(Addie goes toward door at right, her face averted. Mrs. 
Sherman, troubled and very an.vions, starts after her.) 

Mrs. Sherman. Addie, now, Addie! Supper's 'most 
ready! Don't be long if you're going to get cleaned up. 
Addie — you're not going without your supper! You ain't 
had anything to eat sence — Addie ! 

Addie (in a broken voice). Yes, mother — I'll — Fll be 
right down. Don't fret, mother. Fll be down — right away. 
(Goes out .<;lowly at right with bowed head.) 



22 THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 

(Mrs. Sherman stares after her in consternation, then 
sloivly takes her handkerchief from her pocket and zvipes 
her eyes. Shaking her head, she comes sadly dozvn to the 
table and moves a few dishes on it in discouraged fashion, 
just as — ) 

Mart suddenly bursts into the room at left, looking very 
much excited. 

Mart. Mrs. Sherman, my car stalled down the road a 
bit, and while I was fixing it, Jim Miller drove by and 
stopped, and he says he seen Addie come across pastures 
quite awhile ago ! You don't s'pose anything could have 
happened to her ; do you ? 

Mrs. Sherman (/^rzt'/Wcrfrf). Why, Addie's here ! Why, 
you seen her, didn't you ? She said — 

Enter Addie hastily at right. She crosses to Mart with ex- 
tended hand. 

Addie. Oh, how do you do? This is Martin Gage; isn't 
it? How are you? {Shakes hands with him briskly.) 

Mart (gasping, with his face lighted up ivith joy). Addie ! 
\^'^hy, Addie ! Why, you don't look a day older than when — 
But I knew that ! Your mother ain't got a day older, either ! 
Well, say, how are you, anyway ? 

(Mrs. Sherman looks mystified, but she acts discreetly.) 

Addie {laughing tremulously). Why, I'm fine. Mart. 
And that's awfully nice of you to say that ; but I guess from 
what I hear — from Ev — from ma — about how you mistook — 

Mart {embarrassed again). Oh, that\ Now, don't you 
go plaguing me about that! That was some joke on me, all 
right! But say, she does look like you, you know! That is, 
a little like you ! They don't make them as good-looking in 
these days as they used to! Now, that's a fact! No kiddin' 
a-tall ! Ain't that so, Mrs. Sherman? You'll bear me out 
on that ! 



THE WRONG SIDE OF EIGHTEEN 23 

(Mrs. Sherman nods vigorously and beams.) 

Addie {laughing). But yuu haven't changed a bit, Mar- 
tin. You really ought to be going around with the young 
folks, still ! You don't look any older than — 

Mart {zvith a gesture of scorn). Say, go on, now! Say, 
those jazzy youngsters now'days ! Why, do you know, I'm 
scared of them ! Reelly, now ! They seem so kind of knowin' 
and so all-fired up and comin' ! What'd I ever do with any 
of them? Turn 'em loose on my ranch, maybe, and let 'em 
run for a season or two. But. say, Addie, you sure do look 
good to me ! And say, Mrs. Sherman, if that invitation to 
supper's still good, why, guess I'll stay. That is, if Addie 
ain't — if she ain't got some other plans? -{Looks eagerly 
and questioningly at Addie.) 

Addie. Of course not, Mart. Of course you'll stay. 

Mrs. Sherman. Sure you'll stay! I'll go and get the 
bread and things, and supper'll be ready in no time. You 
finish setting the table, Addie. {She hustles off at left.) 

Mart {coming close to Addie and taking her Jiand). Say, 
Addie, you sure do look good to me ! Say, you know your 
ma — she tried to tell me you'd got lots older. Said maybe 
I wouldn't even know you when I saw you! Just as if I 
wouldn't know you the minute I set eyes on you ! 

{He laughs triumpJiantly, and she echoes his laugh a little 
tremulously. If desired, the orchestra or the pianist may 
begin to play an old-time love song very softly behind the 
scenes at the beginning of Mart's last speech, continuing it 
until after the curtain has fallen.) 

Curtain 



<7/ie l_- 




Farce, by Ellis O. Jones; 8 women. Time, 10 
minutes. Mrs. Laite, who was never known to 
be on time for any social engagement in her 
life, keeps a bridge party waiting an hour and 
a half and gets just what is coming to her. 
R-revenge is sweet! A smashing surprise finish. 
Easy to produce. Excellent for clubs. 

Price, 25 Cents 




Comedy, by Mabel Conklin AUj'n; 7 women. 
Time, 40 minutes. Malicious village gossip at- 
tacks the reputation of Grace Harkness, whom 
the kindly, lonely little old maid. Miss Dorkin, 
has taken in. Goaded by her persecutors, Grace 
disappears, but returns in time to save her gen- 
erous benefactor from the poorhouse and to con- 
found her enemies. Brisk and humorous. 

Price, 30 Cents 




Comedy, by George York; 8 women. Time, 35 
minutes. The girls of Mary's set neglect their 
fiances to flirt with Stan Bates. With the aid 
of Mary, whom the girls consider a harmless 
wallflower, the boys turn the tables on them in 
amusing fashion, and the too-innocent Mary 
captures Stan. Price, 30 Cents 




Comedy-drama in 3 acts, by Z. Hartman; 16 
women, 15 by doubling. Time, 2^4 hours. Scene: 
1 Interior. The Kedminster festival committee 
are the victims of their business manager, who 
proves to be a clever crook. Thanks to the 
work of a wily woman detective and the vigil- 
ance of the pugnacious Mrs. Goudy, the thief is 
caught in the act of making away with the 
festival receipts. Price, 35 Cents 






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This group of one-act plays is designed to fit the 
needs of every type of player group in search of a play 
that requires comparatively little preparation and does 
not overtax the abilities of the average amateur player. 
The plays call for a minimum of costuming and stage 
properties, and all the shorter ones may be staged in 
an ordinary room. They are ingenious in plot, lively, and 
entertaining. The great majority of them are rollicking 
farces and gay comedies, with a sprinkling of the more 
serious types of drama well seasoned with humor. They 
are so easy to coach that it would be hard to find an- 
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aration. While the great majority of the plays are for 
mixed casts, the list also contains a good selection of 
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